What Lies Ahead
by coloradoandcolorado1
Summary: John knows beautiful, vulnerable Elsie Patrick needs Sherlock's help: Someone has made attempts on her life, but no one appears to have a motive. Could it have to do with the novel she has loosely based on her college friends? As they investigate, Sherlock and Molly discover a new depth to their relationship while John and Mary's is tested like never before. A Sherlolly Mystery.
1. Chapter 1

1\. I don't own these characters, I'm still not making any money, and I don't own the rights to _Sherlock_.

2\. This story doesn't relate to anything that happened on the TV show after season 2. It does, however, follow my Sherlolly mystery series, coming after _The Dark Reaches of the Night._

3\. The character of Mary Morstan Watson in my stories isn't the same Mary as on BBC's _Sherlock_. Mine is a doctor specializing in cancer research at St. Bart's. She is smart, kind, quick-tempered, and adventurous; loves taekwondo; and is good friends with Molly. She is alive; she and John don't have children.

~s~s~s~s~s

"I do hope she bought you that coffee. And I hope you have calmed down. There's no need to be so bothered about spilling a beverage."

Sherlock Holmes had looked up from his microscope and flicked his eyes over his best friend for only a fraction of a second, but that's all the time he needed to reach a conclusion.

Pulling out a chair across the kitchen table from his best friend, Dr. John Watson offered a thin-lipped smile. "What are you on about?"

Sherlock nodded to the drink John had just set down. "The woman who spilled her iced coffee on you when you collided with her. I hope she bought you that one as an apology."

With a sigh of resignation, John bowed his head. "So how did you know? Go ahead—you're dying to tell me."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "You clearly attempted to blot up all traces of the spill across the front of your shirt, but the trained observer can still see the telltale outline of a coffee stain along with the subsequent light discoloration. If you had spilled at home, you simply would have changed your shirt. Since you didn't, one can deduce that you had your unfortunate accident at Yelland's where you always stop for coffee every Tuesday on your way here. You are very predictable in your routine to anyone paying attention."

Sherlock paused, not for John to confirm his assertions, but to read a text that chimed on his mobile. Molly Hooper was running late, but that was all right. Sherlock had planned to finish his research on the stag beetle before she arrived and he had thirty more minutes left on his current experiment. However, John was still working out the explanation.

"It could have been a Coke. Or tea," he protested.

"A faint aroma still lingers." Sherlock shrugged.

"All right," John conceded. "But why an iced coffee specifically?"

"Since you aren't writhing in pain, you haven't been scalded. Therefore, the drink was cold. You do not like cold coffee, so another person must have spilled her drink on you."

John cleared his throat. "And what did you say about my being bothered?"

Sherlock frowned. "When you are troubled, you stare intently and your nostrils flare. Like right now—just like that. The woman who spilled her drink on you clearly upset you."

"A-ha! How do you know it was a woman?" John looked triumphant, as if he had finally tripped the detective up.

Sherlock purposefully tapped the corner of his mouth. "Not Mary's shade."

~s~s~s~s~s~

John scrubbed the last traces of the red lipstick from his face.

 _Not Mary's shade indeed._

He stood in the bathroom of the flat he used to share with Sherlock before he moved in with and then married Mary Morstan. He stared blankly at his reflection. Sherlock, as always, had been right about everything—the coffeehouse, the collision, the woman.

But the famous detective hadn't realized why the chance encounter had rattled the doctor. Sherlock had made great strides at identifying the complex emotions surrounding the opposite sex since starting a relationship with Molly Hooper, the youngest pathologist at St. Bart's. The couple had weathered many storms resulting in myriad of feelings. But Sherlock didn't always come to the right conclusion regarding the affect a woman could have on a man.

Even on a married man like John.

And the truth was, Elsie Patrick was the most beautiful woman he had ever met.

~s~s~s~s~s~

John had just pulled opened the dark wooden door to Yelland's when a petite twentysomething wearing a fitted khaki dress had rushed into him on her way out.

"Oh!" was all he could manage as her foamy beverage dripped down the front of his white-and-blue-striped shirt.

"I am so sorry!" she had gasped, snatching several paper napkins off a nearby café table.

A biting retort on his tongue, John was ready to express his anger when he looked the woman full in the face for the first time.

 _An English rose._

Her pixie-cut hair, which reminded John immediately of a young Mia Farrow, was a rare shade of red gold that played with light and dark and accented her delicate bone structure. Contrasting full red lips was flawless alabaster skin that held a becoming hint of blush.

She was stunning.

Her beautiful mouth was moving, but he was having a hard time understanding her. "You must send me your laundry bill."

The woman, who was at least 20 years younger than him, awkwardly tried to blot the light brown stain, ultimately handing him the sodden napkin mess. He gripped her hand for a moment and realized he was turning red.

"It-It's quite all right," he stammered, wiping a few stray drops. "No harm done."

Thick, arched brows accented cornflower-blue eyes. "At the very least let me buy you a drink. Coffee, tea . . ."

 _Or me?_

Embarrassed, John said, "You don't have to."

"I insist." She smiled. It was radiant.

"All right then."

John followed her to the counter and placed his order, sneaking glances as she paid. She stood a head shorter than him, a slight wisp of a girl who still had the bloom of youth on her but who dressed like a professional businesswoman. Her tailored dress was cinched in at the waist by a red belt that coordinated with her flats and her purse. A navy blazer completed the look. But it was her eyes—big, round, and surrounded by thick lashes that made him gape.

"I'm not usually so clumsy," she began.

"No worries." John shook his head. "My name is John—John Watson."

"John-John Watson?" she teased.

Feeling his face go hot again, John laughed self-consciously. "Just John."

"I'm Elsie Patrick," she offered. "Again, I apologize. I've been pretty distracted lately. That's the only excuse I have for running into you like that."

"That's understandable." John found his voice.

"It's just some odd things have been happening," she continued, talking more to herself than to him. "Very strange things as a matter of fact."

Her tone made John study her carefully. He thought he saw a few tears well up in those remarkable eyes.

"I know it's none of my business, but what kind of strange things?"

Knitting her brow, she drummed her fingers on the counter. "Some odd things at the house. My car. The brakes gave way."

"What?" His heart beat a little faster.

"A cat darted in front of me, and when I braked, well, that's how I found out. Luckily it happened on a stretch of road that was quite flat, so I coasted to a stop. And then there is this business with the anonymous notes." She stopped abruptly when the clerk returned with John's order. "You don't want to hear about my problems."

"I work with this bloke who is a detective," John quickly volunteered. "He's very good at working out problems. If you ever need help, I'm sure he'd be happy to investigate."

 _Maybe "happy" was too strong of a word. Perhaps he'd be curious._ John could only hope.

Elsie handed him his to-go cup of coffee. "That's very kind, I'm sure."

Their meeting almost at an end, John felt a rush of concern. Something underhanded was going on, he just knew it. Fumbling in his pocket, John pulled out one of Sherlock's cards and handed it to her.

"It's a bit soggy I'm afraid. You can contact him through that email or the website listed. I'd be there, too, when you meet him. I'm his blogger." John couldn't help but notice how lame he sounded.

Elsie studied the card for a moment and looked as if she were about to tell him something, but instead she slipped it in her red clutch. She rose up on her toes and pressed a soft kiss to the side of his mouth.

"Thank you, John-John."

She left Yelland's with a small wave back at the dazed, middle-aged man who wasn't quite sure what had just happened.

~s~s~s~s~s~

Tossing the washcloth into the sink, John was disgusted with himself. Not only had he practically been drooling over Elsie, but not once during their time together did he think of Mary. He had spent the ride over to 221B Baker Street secretly hoping Elsie would ring Sherlock and that he would see her again. Now he dreaded the thought.

 _She won't call_ , he reassured himself. _No harm done. A little flirting, that's all._

Yet, the feeling that Elsie was in real danger nagged at him. Giving his head a little shake, he rejoined Sherlock in the kitchen.


	2. Chapter 2

_Tell all the truth but tell it slant—_

— _Emily Dickinson_

~s~s~s~s~s~

Molly paused at the entrance to the main ballroom at the Savoy and wondered if her dark caramel-colored dress was up to snuff. Mary had told her not to worry about it—who cares what Mycroft's associates and their wives think?—but Molly knew if it were an important enough function for Sherlock to willingly attend, she should care. Sherlock hadn't spoken to his brother in six months.

After learning of Mycroft's dealings with Rick Dodge, the government agent whose incompetence led to Molly being shot, Sherlock had vowed to have nothing to do with his older brother. He wouldn't speak Mycroft's name or take any calls from him. The one time Mycroft had shown up unexpectedly at Baker Street, Molly feared they would come to blows. But when Sherlock received this invitation—which was sent by someone in the Home Office, not Mycroft—Sherlock had RSVP'd yes but hadn't told her why. She knew he would tell her eventually.

Having spent all day researching at the British Museum, Sherlock had asked her to promptly meet him at six o'clock. Normally she would have preferred to have been picked up at her flat, but she had grown more flexible with her expectations of the man she loved. Not that they had been terribly high to begin with. She knew Sherlock too well.

Her eyes immediately tracked to the tallest man in the room, and involuntarily her breath caught. Sherlock was dressed in one of his beautifully cut black suits, one of many similarly attired men, and yet he managed to stand out. It was as if he cared nothing for clothes but couldn't help looking good in them. The warm expression in his eyes when he spotted her melted the last bit of tension inside. He crossed the distance between them in a few long strides.

"I'm glad you are here." He casually kissed her on the cheek. Molly flushed, still not quite used to her boyfriend showing affection for her in public.

"Quite the party, by the look at it." She surveyed the room. "Exactly why are we here?"

Sherlock glanced surreptitiously to where Mycroft stood with a tall, balding man, their heads together in deep conversation. Instead of answering, Sherlock took her hand and led her to the opposite side of the room.

"What's the matter?" she asked

"Nothing is the matter."

"You have a funny look on your face."

"Do I?" he asked, his mind clearly elsewhere. "I understand your confusion at my wanting to attend this gala, but trust me, everything will become clear. Do you see that man with my brother?"

"The one who looks like he has just sucked on a lemon?" She giggled.

"Actually, he has a toothache. Note how he is tilting his head."

"Ah, yes." She nodded. "Back molar."

"Indeed. That is the assistant to the ambassador from Kazakhstan."

"And why is he important?"

"His presence tells me quite a bit about his superior."

"Like what?" She stared at the balding man with curiosity.

"Let's carry on a conversation so they won't notice we are watching them." Sherlock accepted a flute of champagne from a passing server. "I know you have an early shift tomorrow, so we won't be out terribly late. As a matter of fact," he added, focusing his laser-like gaze only on her, "I was thinking it would be practical for you to keep some work clothes at Baker Street so on late nights when you could stay over, you don't need to worry about rushing home to change."

A warm smile slowly spread across her lovely features as she snaked her arms around his slim waist. "Why Mr. Holmes. That is as close to offering cohabitation as you have ever come."

A frown line creased his forehead. "When I ran the idea by John, he said I was making great strides in my thinking of others. Should I have extended an invitation for you to move in?"

Molly smiled to herself. The very thought of "running the idea by John" before talking to her was so very Sherlock. He didn't want to say something "a bit not good." He had come so far since their first date when he had asked a client to join them for dinner.

"My keeping a change of clothes at Baker Street is a good thought. It's nice to hear that you think of the future."

"What do you mean?"

"Our future. Together." She stopped, noting his expression as he watched his brother leave the room with the balding man. "Are we going to say hello to Mycroft?"

"No, I have all the data I need. Do you want to stay for dinner?"

Molly wanted to explain the time and care she had taken in getting ready—not to mention that she was very hungry. Instead she took in Sherlock's elegant appearance. "We can go somewhere . . . less stuffy? There's a new Chinese place that opened up near my flat."

Sherlock nodded and placed his hand on the small of her back as they crossed the room to leave.

"What are you up to tomorrow?" Molly asked.

"A new client is stopping by. It isn't an interesting case, but it has a few decidedly curious points."

As the doorman signaled for a cab, Molly stood on her tiptoes to whisper in Sherlock's ear. "Why don't you keep a few suits at my place? That way you won't have to rush around in the morning. If you stay over."

His eyes held a knowing look. "Was that an invitation Dr. Hooper?"

She slipped her arm through his and deeply inhaled his strong masculine scent. "Yes, Mr. Holmes. I believe it was."

 _~s~s~s~s~s~_

Like a cat watching for its prey, Sherlock sat perfectly still in his chair. The only movement came from his half-closed eyes as they shifted side to side, taking in the familiar objects of 221 B Baker Street: Bill the Skull on the mantle, beakers haphazardly stacked in the kitchen sink, Molly's red jumper draped over the arm of the sofa. But he didn't really see them. Deep in thought, Sherlock was puzzling over the facts of the case that had just presented itself.

Not all the facts, of course. He didn't have the case history yet. The problem itself was dull, only a three on his rating scale. It was hardly worth putting pants on for let alone getting fully dressed in a dark suit and purple shirt. When he received the email from the potential client, he barely could get past the second sentence he was so bored, but then he read something that gave rise to a question that demanded an answer.

When he heard the familiar, energetic steps of John Watson hurrying up the stairs, he steepled his long, pale fingers under his chin and let his eyes slide completely closed.

"I came as soon as I got your text," his friend said. "So we have a new case?"

"Hmmm." Sherlock listened as John stripped off his jacket ( _the green one, much too heavy for such a warm day_ ) and tossed it over a kitchen chair. "The client is in the loo. Something about wanting to powder her nose."

"Right. What's the case?"" John sounded impatient.

"Attempted murder. Maybe."

"You're not sure?"

"The client isn't sure."

John let out an exasperated sigh as he fluffed the Union Jack pillow on his chair before sitting down. "How can you not know if someone has tried to kill you?"

"I have no idea." Sherlock deliberately paused a beat. "What did you think when she first told you about it?"

"Wh-What are you talking about?"

Hearing the _click-squeak_ of the bathroom door, Sherlock's eyes snapped open and he watched the color drain from his best friend's face as the client entered the room.

With the light playing on her slicked-back golden red hair, Elsie Patrick stood before them. The jeans she wore were a good brand, but the tapered fit only served to accentuate her short stature. Her crisp, white blouse was freshly laundered and her black heels looked several years old in spite of a recent polishing. But what interested Sherlock the most about this client was how she regarded John with a shy smile.

"Elsie. Hello." John stood like a puppet that had its strings jerked suddenly. He shook the woman's hand then dropped it just as quickly.

"Good to see you again," she said softly.

Sherlock arched an eyebrow at the pair before gesturing for Elsie to have a seat. "Ms. Patrick contacted me to arrange this appointment. She told me she had met you at Yelland's and you had suggested she get my advice in sorting out an attempted murder." He watched for John's reaction. "You didn't tell me the woman who spilled coffee on you had a possible case."

The question hung in the air, the one Sherlock had to have answered. John shifted uncomfortably. "Must have slipped my mind."

 _Pulse rate elevated. Blinking at twice the normal rate. Pulling on his left ear._

It took a full two-and-a-half seconds for Sherlock to accept the inevitable conclusion: John had lied— _to him_!

Swallowing his indignation, the consulting detective quickly calculated the possible reasons why John wouldn't tell the truth, none of which were appealing. It was obvious, then—he would have to take this case.

"Ms. Patrick, tell us all about yourself. Start from the very beginning and don't leave anything out. Where exactly in Derbyshire are you from?"


End file.
